Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 11
“I’m so glad to see you, comrade,” Marcos said, his quiet voice filled with emotion. “I’d heard that you were dead.”
“It will take more than the CIA to kill me off, my friend,” Che said, smiling. He walked toward Marcos, and the two men embraced in the comforting darkness. Marcos stroked Che’s beard and drew his fingers across the Cuban’s mouth. Guevara tightened his embrace and brought his lips to the subcoman-dante’s, wet and soft behind the ski mask. As they kissed, Marcos lowered his hands to Che’s ass, stroking the guerilla’s butt through his khaki fatigues. The two men pressed their hard dicks into one another, their tongues still entwined.
“Fuck, comrade…” sighed Marcos. “Si,” agreed Che.
Bruno would have to do some research: Would Che’s fatigues have been khaki or green? Was the story, finally, going to be set in Mexico or in Cuba? And, though he was having fun with the time-travel improbabilities of the story, something seemed off. How could he fully capture the myth of the romantic revolutionary without getting purple-prose overripe?
He backed up what there was of the story and decided to phone Yusuf—it had been days since they’d seen each other. Within an hour, Bruno was in Yusuf’s bed. The boy from Palestine liked to be fucked, and fucked hard, on all fours like a dog in heat. And Bruno obliged him, his long cock plunging into Yusuf’s soft muskiness again and again, so hard that after a while Bruno half-hoped it hurt.
When they were done with the fucking, lying naked side by side, Bruno told Yusuf about the story he was writing.
“I don’t know,” Yusuf said. “It seems awfully like novelty-for- novelty’s-sake. I mean, using Guevara as nothing more than a character in some porn story.”
“But he’s already a T-shirt design…” Bruno said.
“Yeah, but…I thought you were kind of into nonviolence.”
“Well, yeah, kinda.”
“And anyway, isn’t the Cuban government antigay?” Yusuf asked.
“Well, if it is, wouldn’t eroticizing a queer Che be a cool move, or, like, revenge?”
“Oh, yeah? What next? A story about how Reverend Lou Sheldon is such a stud?”
Yusuf could be argumentative, sometimes, in that college-student way of his, and Bruno figured this was probably one discussion in which he’d come out the loser. So he snuggled down until his face was even with Yusuf’s brown hip and then leaned over and put his mouth around his boyfriend’s cock. It tasted of cum, and, so soon after orgasm, it was in no mood to get hard again. But Bruno liked sucking it, anyway, even soft. He ran his tongue around the cockhead’s ridge while Yusuf went on about politics. After a little while, Bruno didn’t even hear him.
Che licked the pre-cum from the tip of Marcos’s large, curved dick, then ran his tongue down the underside, down to the subcomandante’s dark, hairy ballsac.
Marcos shivered and said, “Lower, Che, lower.” And Guevara licked the ridge between Marcos’s muscular thighs. The Zapatista raised his legs and Che zeroed in on the newly revealed hole, inhaling its earthy smell. Then he began to move the tip of his tongue around the hot puckered flesh.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Marcos said, and Che’s tongue burrowed deeper. Marcos reached down, ran his hand through Che’s thick dark hair, then pushed down on Guevara’s head, ramming Che’s face against his ass.
“I want you inside me, comrade,” Subcomandante Marcos said.
“I don’t have a condom,” Che said after taking his mouth from Marcos’ wet, soft hole.
“There are some in my jacket pocket,” Marcos said.
Che reached over and got a rubber. He knelt above Marcos, his cock so hard it stood straight up against his hairy belly, and unrolled the Trojan over his hard-on.
“Lube?” asked Che Guevara.
“In that same pocket.”
And in moments, Che was fucking the subcomandante, his revolutionary cock shoved all the way inside the Zapatis-ta. Marcos groaned in delight as Guevara’s cock stroked in and out, hitting his prostate with astonishing precision every time.
“Christ, you know what you’re doing, Che.”
Guevara lowered himself down onto Marcos’s body, shining with sweat, and the two men kissed, deeply, heatedly, as though it were forever.
After that bedroom discussion with Yusuf, Bruno had Goog-led “Che Guevara homosexuality.” The first two links were—unsurprisingly—to folks selling Che T-shirts that had most likely been produced in some Third World sweatshop. Then came some links pointing out that homosexuality had been decriminalized in Cuba in 1979, that Fidel Castro had said, “I am absolutely opposed to any form of repression, contempt, scorn, or discrimination with regard to homosexuals.” Interesting.
And then Bruno had run across a quote by some Republican senator, Tom Coburn of Oklahoma. “Lesbianism is so rampant in some of the schools in southeast Oklahoma,” the esteemed lawmaker had said, “that they’ll only let one girl go to the bathroom. Now think about it. How is it that that’s happened to us?” Leaving aside the charming semiliteracy of the statement (either the schmuck meant “one girl at a time” or a lot of Oklahoma schoolgirls were peeing in their pants), the quote brought together many of the strophes of classic homophobia. There was the threat to society, the rueful tone of alarm, the whole threat-to-youth thing, the alarm over underage sex, even a hint of rape. And Bruno suspected that Coburn might have jacked off on occasion while fantasizing about the ravening babydykes of Antlers, Oklahoma. Small wonder that homosex had remained illegal in the freedom-loving state of Oklahoma for a quarter century after it was legalized in Cuba.
It just showed how far off the radicals of the 1960s had been when they thought the United States was in a prerevolu-tionary situation.
And here he was, writing a penis-filled paean to icons of leftist peasant uprisings. Who the hell would publish it?
Oh well, it was mostly done now, anyhow. He only had to finish that sex scene. It was a good time to work; he was hel-laciously horny. He pulled down his sweatpants till his half-hard dick flopped free, then grabbed hold of his shaft and began stroking.
With one final cry of triumph, Che shot off inside Marcos, who, without even touching himself, let loose a flood of sperm on his own furry belly. After one final kiss, Guevara rolled off Marcos and the two men lay on their backs, side-by-side, holding hands, looking up at an eternity of stars.
“Che?”
“ Si?”
“Would you like me to take off my mask? Would you like to see my face at last?”
Guevara looked over at his friend. “Yes…I don’t know… no. No.”
There was a long moment of silence, only the sounds of the night.
“You know, Che, our enemies will tell many lies about us.” Che squeezed Marcos’s hand harder. “I know, I know. But I have faith that eventually truth and justice will triumph.”
The full moon had made its way above the mountains. Guevara’s face was bathed in silvery light. For a moment, he looked like a man about to profess his love, but all he said was, “My cock is getting hard again.”
“So soon?” Subcomandante Marcos said, and laughed. He rolled over onto Che Guevara. “Well, this time I fuck you.” “Adelante, comrade,” Che Guevara said, and started to raise his legs.
“How’s your boyfriend?”
It had been almost two weeks since Bruno last saw Yusuf, who hadn’t even bothered to return his phone calls. But he didn’t want to get into that now. “He’s fine,” he said.
“So…” Neva said. “Your story.”
“I wrote it for you.”
“I know,” Neva smiled. “And for yourself, no?”
“Guilty as charged,” Bruno said. “Just don’t tell the People’s Tribunal.”
“Ah, bourgeois individualism!” Neva said, and giggled.
“Did you like it?”
“I did, yeah. Though it lacked a certain political sophistication, it sure worked as porn. Bruno, darlin’, I found it hot. Actually, it made me want to masturbate.”
“And did you?” Bruno thought back to the multiple orgasms he’d had while writing “Marcos y Che.”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Bitch.”
“You bet. Anyway, there were a few things that were unclear. Did the fuck take place in a Cuban peasant woman’s hut or in the Mexican mountains at night?”
“Um…I’m still revising it.”
“Good enough. Another mojito? My treat.”
“Sure, thanks.”
When the waitron had brought a couple more drinks, Neva raised her glass. “¡Viva la revolución!” she said.
“¡Qué viva!” Bruno said. And he took a long, delicious sip.
GARLIC
Bob Vickery
I remember reading in one of those little “grab bag” items in the newspaper that if you eat a clove of garlic, two hours later your feet will smell of it. I think of that now as I bury my nose in Angelo’s balls. Among the pungent, yeasty scents lost in the folds of loose scrotal flesh, I get a distinct whiff of garlic. I roll Angelo’s ballsac in my mouth, washing it with my tongue, and yes, the taste of garlic is faintly noticeable to my taste buds as well. I look up at Angelo, grinning. “How come whenever I blow you I feel like ordering a pizza?” I ask.
Angelo laughs, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. His dark eyes shine and his expressive face lights up with humor. “I don’t know, Aaron,” he says. “I’ve long ago given up trying to figure out how you Anglos think.”
Angelo’s dick lies hard against his flat belly, thick and dark and roped with veins. I wrap my hand around it and give it a squeeze. The ripe plum of his cock head turns deep purple and a single, clear drop of pre-jizz oozes out the slit. I lick it up and roll my tongue around the sticky drop, savoring its taste as if I were sampling a vintage wine. I give Angelo’s balls a gentle tug as our eyes meet. “You got a load in there for me, baby?” I growl. “A thick, creamy wad that you’re going to splatter my tonsils with?”
Angelo’s mouth curves up into a lazy grin. He’s got a beautiful mouth, the lips full and sensual. His grin widens, and his teeth flash white in his dark face. “I got a load for you, all right.” he says softly. “A mother lode. But you’re not going to taste it.” He wraps his legs around me and pivots me onto my back, straddling my chest. “I’m going to fuck you tonight,” he says softly, his eyes laughing. “Plow that pretty ass of yours. Squirt my jizz inside you. You’ll just have to taste it some other time.” I slide my hands up his smooth, brown torso, feeling the warmth of his flesh, the play of muscles beneath my finger tips. A crisp black curl of hair falls against Angelo’s forehead, and his eyes burn into mine. I give his nipples a sharp twist, and Angelo closes his eyes. “Fuuuck,” he sighs softly. He reaches over to the bedside table for a condom.
Angelo fucks my ass with slow, languorous thrusts, me on my back, him looming above me like an angel of the Second Coming, his gaze locked on mine. Angelo’s eyes are as black as Spanish olives, and his skin is the tawny brown of the Tuscan hills in the heat of summer. I feel his hot breath on my face, stinking of garlic, reeking of it, and I breathe deeply, closing my eyes. I push my hips up to meet his next thrust, and Angelo groans his appreciation. He has a lube-smeared hand wrapped around my cock, and I fuck his fist with the same deep strokes that he uses to fuck my ass.
“I’m getting close, baby,” he whispers, and the next time he thrusts into me, I wrap my legs around him and clamp my ass muscles hard around his thick cock. Angelo gives a long, trailing groan, and his body trembles above me. He bends down and plants his mouth on mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, and all I taste is garlic. I feel his cock pulse inside me as he squirts his load into the condom up my ass, and with a few quick thrusts, I topple over the edge too and fall into my own orgasm.
“Fuckin’ A,” Angelo croons. He pumps his fist up and down, and I shudder as my jizz shoots out, coating his fingers, dribbling down his wrist. Angelo collapses on top of me, his dick still in me. We lie there, in the sweat-soaked sheets, the weight of Angelo’s body pushing down on me, his face nuzzled in my neck. Angelo’s breath takes on a deeper, measured cadence as he drifts into sleep. I roll him off me, and he stirs awake, kissing me absently and pulling me close to him. He drifts back into sleep, his face up next to mine, and the smell of garlic is so strong it feels like something thick and solid. That night I dream I work in a pizzeria in Little Italy.
A couple of weeks later I take Angelo to the Garlic Festival in Gilroy, about two hours south of San Francisco. The festival takes place on a wide, treeless field, what grass there is trampled down and burnt brown by the summer sun. Fair booths dot the field, with red and white striped awnings, flags and streamers snapping in the wind, and salsa music blaring out of loudspeakers mounted on poles. The mob that descends upon the field pushes through the alleys made by the rows of booths. This is not a crafts fair; there are no displays of tie-dyed T-shirts or agate wind chimes or stained glass medallions. The only thing these booths sell is food. Food made with garlic. And kegs of garlic-flavored beer and bottles of garlic wine to wash it all down with.
Angelo and I don’t so much walk as let the crowd carry us from booth to booth. Angelo has peeled his shirt off and tucked it in the back of his jeans, and his nut-brown torso gleams in the summer sun. Beads of sweat gather around his nipples, grow to full drops, and then slowly trickle down his smooth, muscled chest. We eat whatever the booth we’re at is selling. Angelo buys a bag of garlic fries, and we stuff handfuls of them in our mouths and wash them down with garlic beer. The next booth is selling garlic scampini, and we buy plates of it, which we eat in hurried bites as the crowd carries us off. A new band takes the stage, and instead of salsa, hard, pounding rock ’n’ roll blasts out of the speakers at deafening volume. Angelo and I gorge on garlic chicken adobe, garlic spring rolls, garlic calamari, garlic goat cheese, garlic fettuccine, roasted garlic cloves that squirt pure garlic in our mouths when we squeeze the outer husks. We switch to garlic wine and then back to garlic beer, served foaming in tall Styrofoam cups. Angelo bends his head back and gulps the beer down, and it spills out of the sides of the cup, down his chin, cascading onto his pecs in a frothy swirl. He rubs the back of his hand across his mouth, and when his eyes meet mine we burst out laughing. Later, Angelo buys a jar of garlic paste, opens it, and smears the rank, stinking goo over my face and shoulders, grinning. I grab the jar and return the favor, slathering his body with the paste like he’s a luau pig being prepped for a roasting. Angelo takes my wrist and pulls my fingers to his mouth, licking off the caked gobs of pure garlic, and then takes another chug of beer. We pass a booth selling garlic-flavored ice cream, and we share a bowl, spooning it into each other’s mouths. It’s thick and creamy, and in the hard, beating sun, eating it is almost as good as righteously good sex.
By late afternoon we are completely shit-faced. The sun still blazes, human flesh presses against us as the crowd surges down the tent alleys like a sluggish tide, and the music pounds us like a force of nature. We find ourselves pressed against the impromptu stage where the band is playing.
“Fuuck,” Angelo says. “I gotta get out of this crowd. It’s just too fuckin’ much.”
We sneak around to the back of the of the stage, and duck under the cloth that covers the scaffolding. Angelo collapses onto the hard ground, and I fall down beside him. The shade is like a blessing from Jesus. Sunlight streams in through tears in the cloth, and I drunkenly watch the dust beams dance in the rays. The ground vibrates under my back from the crashing music above us. Just when I think my skull is going to split open with the noise, mercifully, the band finishes its set. The emcee announces the next act, some blues singer just down from Santa Cruz. A couple of minutes later we hear a voice like sandpaper belting out “A Little Piece of My Heart,” with guitars and drums backing her up.
Angelo rolls over next to me and buries his face in my chest. He jerks his head up, and his eyes meet mine. “Goddamn, but you stink,” he laughs.
I laugh back. “You’re not exactly a rose garden yourself.” “Bullshit,” Angelo says, grinning. “That’s exactly what I am. A stinking rose garden. Garlic, the stinking rose.” He reaches over and pulls my face against his. His tongue snakes into my mouth, and I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close to me. We’re both soaked with sweat, and our bodies slide against each other like a couple of otters. Angelo rolls me onto my back and pins my arms down, his face looming above mine. Our eyes lock, and his expression grows serious. I crane my head up, and we kiss again, slowly, all tongue, our mouths working together. I reach up and run my fingers through Angelo’s hair, curling them, tugging his head back and forth as we tongue-fuck each other’s mouths.
Angelo reaches down and cups my dick with his hand. I feel my cock stiffen and rub against the rough fabric of my jeans. “You got something there for me?” Angelo croons. “Something big and stiff for me to work on?”
“Yeah,” I growl. “Come and get it.”
Angelo tugs my zipper down and slips his hand inside. He gives my dick a good squeeze. “Jeez, Aaron,” he says, all exaggerated innocence. “It feels like you’re ready for bear.”
Angelo climbs to his knees and tugs my jeans and shorts down below my knees. My dick is fully hard now, juiced and pressed against my belly. Angelo wraps his hand around it, bends it back, and lets it slap against my stomach. He does that again, and then once more. “Is that all you’re going to do?” I ask. “Play slap-the-dick?”
“I dunno,” Angelo grins. “You got something else in mind?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Get naked, and I’ll show you.”
Angelo stands up and pulls his clothes off, dropping them in a pile next to him. A shaft of light shines through an open canvas seam and plays against his chest, making it gleam like fine mahogany.
